Little Things

THERE’S nothing very beautiful and nothing very gay

About the rush of faces in the town by day;

But a light tan cow in a pale green mead,

That is very beautiful, beautiful indeed…

And the soft March wind and the low March mist

Are better than kisses in a dark street kissed…

The fragrance of the forest when it wakes at dawn,

The fragrance of a trim green village lawn,

The hearing of the murmur of the rain at play—

These things are beautiful, beautiful as day!

And I shan’t stand waiting for love or scorn

When the feast is laid for a day new-born…

Oh, better let the little things I loved when little

Return when the heart finds the great things brittle;

And better is a temple made of bark and thong

Than a tall stone temple that may stand too long.